


No Hammer Without A Forge

by Moorishflower



Series: The Forge 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is a hammer without a forge? The same as a Trickster without a second chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Hammer Without A Forge

  
When the Lightbringer leaves, that is when Coyote arrives.

He is fashionably late - perhaps too late, if the hotel's state of affairs is considered. All the gods lay crumpled like wet tissue paper, bloody smears on walls and floors and desks. He recognizes the mighty trunk of Ganesh, the dainty finger of Artemis, and the air reeks of aborted power. So many gods, snuffed from existence so quickly, and they have left behind something of themselves for the lucky and the unwitting to stumble upon. Coyote is neither. He is always in the right place at the right time.

He moves through the hotel, past the bloodied remains of gods and humans, until he reaches the grand ballroom, to find the only body that has not been ripped apart at the seams.

"Coyote is old, but he remembers you," the god says, ponderous and ancient. Coyote has existed since before the Creation. No one knows who made the Earth (although many are willing to lay claim to it), just as no one knows who made the very first humans. It's possible they all did. It's possible that all of their respective peoples were born into the world at exactly the same moment.

Coyote kneels on the floor, above the blackened soot-smudge impression of four great wings. The image has been scorched into the wood, and the ground beneath. Coyote can feel it, deep down in the bones of the earth. The rocks themselves mourn this creature's passing. As does he. As should the world.

"You made a fine god," Coyote murmurs, and lays one gnarled hand upon the archangel's forehead. Gabriel is so still. In life, he was full of movement and sound – even before he became Loki, he had been a Trickster at heart. "You made a fine Trickster."

His hand slides from the cold forehead to just behind his neck, fingers tangling in the long hair. He shoves his other arm beneath Gabriel's deadweight back, shuffles his foot forward, and lifts up. Angels are heavier than people, but Coyote is old, and everything is backwards, with gods. He is ancient, and he is powerful, and holding a dead archangel to his breast is nothing compared to holding his long-dead son.

"Don't you worry," Coyote croons, carrying Gabriel from the grand ballroom out into the carnage of the hotel. He thoughtfully bows his head, long hair sweeping forward to hide the archangel's eyes from the remains of the other gods. "Old Coyote, he breathed life into the rocks and the trees and the water. You will not be so difficult."

He hefts Gabriel outside, where he will be able to feel the moon on his face. It will help, in the long run.

***  
Coyote makes some calls. Just because they are gods does not mean they have rejected the comforts of humans. Pan lives in a five-floor mansion in Athens, the lucky bastard. Fertility, in the twenty-first century, translates very well into high-class pornography. Not all of them have been so lucky - he has heard that Rabbit is living in a trailer somewhere in Cancun, perpetually drunk on Coors Light. The term 'alcoholic' cannot apply to a god of drunkenness and excess, but it should. It should.

First he makes a call to the Anchorage post office, and leaves a message for Raven. She is always moving, always wandering, but everyone in Alaska knows her by face. She calls back three hours later, sounding frost-bitten and cold.

"Grandfather Coyote," she greets respectfully. "You would do well to go to ground, as I have. As we all have."

"Not all of us," Coyote gently reminds her. "There are some of us who remember the beginning of everything. This fight will come and go, as all others have come and gone." He paused, and then cleared his throat. "The fight will end sooner, if all the pieces are mended."

"You refer to the archangel."

"Of course."

Raven sighs, harsh and rasping. Coyote imagines her black hair, snow-wet and curling about her sharp cheekbones, her beak-like nose. She is not a beautiful woman, but she is a striking one. "No, Grandfather. It's foolish. Do you _want_ to attract the attention of the Lightbringer?"

Coyote laughs. "Of course not. But even if I did, I would not fear him. He is a child, compared to us. They are all children. It is our responsibility to protect them."

"Forget it, old one. I will ride out this storm on my own."

"As you wish."

They hang up at precisely the same moment. He and Raven have always had a unique relationship, but she is not the only god in the world. There are hundreds of thousands more, and Coyote has the phone numbers, emails, and addresses of more than half.

He sends emails out to India, to Egypt, to Hokkaido (he is a god, but he is not made of money, and calling other countries is expensive). He calls New Orleans, New York, New Mexico, every place that he can think of that might be large enough or empty enough to house a god.

Slowly, he gathers them together. The ones who agree to come – the Worldmakers, the Earthmovers, the gods who created the oceans from their spit and the mountains and coral reefs from their bodies – are the ones who knew Gabriel in life, either as Loki or his true self. Anubis, Vishnu, even Aida-Wedo arrives, with rainbows sewn into her hair and dress.

Last to come is Raven, sheepish, her sharp features contorted in shame.

"I knew him as Loki," she admits quietly, and fits herself into the circle they have made around Gabriel's body, outside, where the sky can smile upon him and the lingering presence of dead gods is strongest. "He was a fine man."

"I knew him as Gabriel," Vishnu intones. "I saw the truth in him and was not scornful. He was a fine man."

Coyote squeezes Aida-Wedo's hand – she is crying. "I knew him as Gabriel," she whispers. "He held the rain clouds for me as I bathed, and refused to gaze upon my body, out of respect. He was a fine man."

"I knew him as Loki," Anubis sighs. His voice is a voice full of pain and weight, dry and soft. "He kept me company when all others treated me as a leper. He was a fine man."

Coyote looks on Gabriel's face, would reach out to touch his cheek were it not for the circle they have made. Circles, after all, have power. "I knew him as both Gabriel and Loki. I taught him of joy and sadness. I taught him of sex, and love, and death. I urged him to create himself however he saw fit. He was a fine man. So let him be a fine man once again."

They all clench their hands, clasped together, and the power of creation runs through them.

***

It takes three days. Fortunately, gods are patient, and not easily discouraged. They search the aether for traces of Gabriel, gathering the threads together with careful, clever hands. Aida-Wedo folds them into bundles, passing them off to Anubis, who weighs them, and plucks what extra thread he needs from the dead. The finished threads pass to Vishnu, who dyes them with his blood, and then to Raven and Coyote, who very carefully sew them back into Gabriel's body. What they are making will not be quite the same, but it will be Gabriel nonetheless.

Lucifer is only one, and they represent hundreds of thousands. There is no force on earth that can surmount those sorts of odds – not even death.

Three days of gathering, weighing, dying, sewing, and as evening falls on the final day, it is with a surprising lack of fanfare that the body they circle stirs, and then stiffens, and then opens its eyes.

"Welcome back to the world," Coyote says warmly, and the gods unclasp their hands, and reach out to touch Gabriel's hair, the curve of his cheek and jaw, the swan-length of his neck. Raven curls one long lock of hair around her finger, tugging slightly and smiling when Gabriel flinches away. He seems surprised that he can feel – as he should be. Before, it would have registered merely as pressure, not pain.

"You make a handsome man," Aida-Wedo praises quietly, and Vishnu brushes his fingers over Gabriel's collarbone; they all soak in the renewal of life they have cobbled together. There is nothing quite like forming something out of nothing – or, in this case, forming something out of very little. It is strikingly similar to giving birth, which is probably why all the most popular creation myths tell stories of gods falling pregnant and birthing the sun and moon. It hardly ever happens that way.

"What happened?"

Gabriel's voice is soft, raspy, hurting. It has lost the otherworldly tinge of Heaven. They ring around him like moths to a flame, touching, sensing. Mortality is the most beautiful of all creations.

And then, one by one, they leave. Raven is the first to go, giving Gabriel's hair one last tug before unfolding herself from the ground and then walking away. She needs no car or plane – she will make her way back to Anchorage eventually. Then Vishnu, who leaves them for his Bentley, parked not that far away, and Aida-Wedo who, like Raven, will find her way back to New Orleans on foot. Anubis is the last to go, giving Gabriel a fond kiss on the temple, his suede-golden skin smooth as silk, and then standing, and following Vishnu to his car.

Until there are no gods left but Coyote. As it once was. As it always will be.

"You have given your brother quite the scare," he says softly, standing and taking a shuffling step back as Gabriel struggles to sit up. Every muscle in the man's body is taut with pain.

"What did you do," he croaks, and doubles over, retching miserably. Coyote watches him with a passive eye.

"What you are feeling is what all mortals feel since birth. It is the slow death of your body – every cell, every strand of DNA, every molecule in you is deteriorating. Rotting from the inside out."

"_That's_ comforting." Gabriel lets himself fall back, and then rolls onto his side, chest heaving as his stomach urges him to vomit, and yet there is nothing for him to bring up. Even this, Coyote thinks, is beautiful in its own way. When the spasms subside, Gabriel rolls onto his back again, and stares up at the sky.

"I'm mortal," he says softly. And, "Yes," Coyote answers. Gabriel raises a weak hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Coyote suspects he has never needed to do this before.

"Long ago, you comforted an old man over the death of his son," Coyote sighs. "It was the greatest favor you could have ever performed for me. Now, I have repaid you. We will never again be equals, you and I." His creased mouth curves in a smile, and for a moment there is the brief flash of sharp teeth. "If we ever meet again, it will be as predator and prey. Remember this."

And then Coyote, too, leaves. Slower than the rest, periodically stopping to look back and check on the prone form of Gabriel, but eventually he disappears over a hummock of soil in the distance, and he is gone.

Gabriel lies in the grass. He curls his fingers through it, considering the wealth of sensation he had discovered while posing as a Trickster, and the things that he will discover now. Pain, probably. Human sadness and anger, so much more short-sighted and all-encompassing than the sorrow or wrath of Heaven.

It takes him an hour to haul himself to his feet – he is using muscles that have been stiff and dead for days. He doesn't know what the date is, and it bothers him. He wants to know how long he was dead.

Gabriel takes one shuffling step after another to the edge of the road, where he stands for the longest time, letting the sun beat down on him, letting the breeze wash over him. He smells like shit. He really wants a shower, and a piece of cake, and maybe a beer. He also wants to find the Winchesters. And Castiel. He owes Castiel an explanation.

Slowly, Gabriel sticks out his thumb.

He begins to walk.

  



End file.
